


Relief

by allofthismatters



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 00:52:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11909805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthismatters/pseuds/allofthismatters
Summary: Takes place shortly after the Final Battle.I gave Emma a cold just so that I could write some angst about her life. Sorry. Enjoy.





	Relief

She’s sick within a week.

Truly nothing serious, but thoroughly miserable nevertheless; she’s put her body and her nerves through too much lately, and now she’s paying the price. Naturally, Killian acts as though she’s dying and given the events of the past few months, she tries to be sensitive about it. He does come from a world where a fever and a sore throat very well could have been the beginning of the end. And, of course, there’s the fact that she very clearly did die (or at least came close to it) right in front of his eyes not even ten days ago.

In a way, it’s a relief. She can’t even think of the last time that she’s been free of gut-sickening adrenaline long enough for her body to succumb to simple illness.

It’s a relief to feel run down and beat up when the cause isn’t some malevolent magical force trying to wrench her away from the people she loves. She’ll take this any day when it means getting to wake up to her husband who still looks at her like she’s the most beautiful goddamn thing he’s ever laid eyes on despite the fact that her eyes are swollen and she can only breathe through her mouth.

He’d gotten up about an hour ago, kissing her forehead and lingering to feel for fever before heading downstairs.

_Sleep a little more, love._

She had gone ahead and done just that, but now she’s conscious again and she still feels the warm breath and tender rumble of his words against her temple, the cool press of his wedding ring on her hot cheek. And just like that, she’s blinking against the sting of tears.

It’s a relief to be ill and have someone around who gives a damn about it. 

Sickness has only ever meant helpless panic to her before now.

It was the result of never having enough good food or anything thick enough to stay warm in the brutal northern winters.

It was the silent running whimper of _I want my parents, I want my parents_ in her early childhood as foster families with varying degrees of tenderness and competence stumbled through caring for a little girl with the flu.

It was foster parents who made it clear that she _owed_ them and better be _damn grateful_ to them for coming to get her from the school nurse with Strep throat so bad she couldn’t swallow a sip of water.

It was hiding under a slide during recess and praying no one would notice the spots starting on her skin, because she’d finally made a friend here and didn’t want chicken pox scaring someone into sending her away again.

And later in life, it was the humiliation of briefly passing out on a sidewalk while trying to go to work with a 102 degree fever and waking up to concerned department store employees hovering over her.

_Honey, is there someone we can call for you?_

_No, I don’t have anybody._

 

She pads downstairs, half leaning on the railing, eyes barely open, head still lolling a bit.

He hears her coughing and looks up when she reaches the kitchen.

The clock startles her when it reads close to noon, but she can hardly care when the clouds outside are dark and heavy and the two of them are still clad in clothes for sleeping, not a plan or obligation in the world.

He rises and wraps her in his arms, where she presses her face to his chest and groans pitifully for a few self-indulgent moments.

“Oh, my lass…”, he murmurs against her hair, rubbing her back in a rhythm that almost has her drifting to sleep again standing up. “Can you try and eat?”

She nods, mostly for his sake. The first night of peace they had together, he hadn’t been able to hide his grimace as he ran his hand over bare ribs and hip bones that hadn’t been in such sharp relief a few months ago, her entire body trembling just slightly with shot nerves and exhausted weakness. He’s been almost compulsive about getting food into her since, cooking big breakfasts and bringing back food from Granny’s that has just a bit more to it than it usual.

Killian keeps her close to his chest and walks her backwards to the living room, depositing her unceremoniously on the couch. She laughs softly, which of course turns into a string of coughs, and in a moment he’s back with a bowl.

The broth inside holds thick noodles and vibrant vegetables. Chunks of soft carrot, lush green stalks and leaves of _something_ —who the hell is she kidding, she doesn’t know vegetables—that she’s seen growing in the garden behind the diner.

For the second time in a few hours, she’s sure she’s about to cry. She eats slowly, breathing in the steam and savoring every bite that she can barely even taste because she’s _alive_ , and so, so warm, and she has a damn _husband_ who cares that she’s fed. She hardly even cares that she hates vegetables. Right now they feel oddly like an extension of his devotion to her and his attention to what she needs; nutrients seeping into her blood and making her well the same way his love did. She tries to curtail her emotion before tears find their way out, because she really doesn’t want to have to tell him that he married someone who weeps over _vegetables_.

“Thank you,” she offers instead, setting the empty bowl down on the coffee table as he returns and sits beside her.

She lays against his shoulder for a while as a documentary hums in the background. A stray memory flits through her head of being seven years old, sick as a dog, and having her little body nudged off of another shoulder she’d sought comfort in, with a mechanical pat on the head and pursed lips.

_Sweetie, no one wants your germs._

No one wants _you_ , is what it had felt like.

But now she’s here, sitting in stillness with him, and he’s nothing but steadiness and unflinching dedication, and she knows it wasn’t true, and never will be again. _You’re not alone anymore._ She thinks the words fiercely, directing them to every version of her younger self, wherever she may exist now.

She tries to soak the moment into her soul, send the pure peace of it through time and space as a beacon…a plea to _just keep going, so you can get here_. He must feel the change in her, because he’s gathering her up again, laying back and settling her on his chest.

“Lie down, lass. Come here.” She adjusts her position a few times to get comfortable, and then a few more times just for the delicious feeling of making contact with his skin. She kisses under his jaw as the tears finally come and he responds with warm, lingering presses of his lips to her hairline and muttered words of love that fight off the pain of the past.

She’d go through hell again and again if it meant she got this at the end of it.

Because despite her depleted body, for the first time in her life she feels well.


End file.
